


Proud

by sakura_freefall



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Basically Just Enjolras's Angsty Stream Of Conciousness, Canon Compliant, Character Death, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Enjoltaire- freeform, F/M, First Kiss, Gen, Like it's Les Mis, M/M, Mutual Pining, Non-Graphic Violence, Patria as a character, Post-Barricade, admitting feelings, of course there's character death, or at least hopeful ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-18
Updated: 2020-09-18
Packaged: 2021-03-07 16:22:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,685
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26520589
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sakura_freefall/pseuds/sakura_freefall
Summary: Enjolras has failed everyone. Failed France, failed the revolution, and failed his friends.So why are they saying they're proud of him?Beta'ed by @A-Butter-Churner
Relationships: Enjolras/Grantaire (Les Misérables), Les Amis de l'ABC Friendship, Marius/Cosette (mentioned)
Comments: 6
Kudos: 36





	Proud

"Do you permit it?" he asks, and at a different time, Enjolras might've laughed. But that time is not now, not when they're both about to die and everything they built is crashing around them.

He doesn't know what to say. Or trust himself to speak. What is there to say?  _ I'm sorry? I failed you all? I don't hate you, I just couldn't afford to care?  _

So he grabs his hand. Smiles a little, feeling Grantaire's rough calloused one curl around his. There is a touch of irony to it, Prouvaire would say. Two people, barely hurt, in a half-destroyed cafe, one smelling of alcohol and old books and revolution.

Prouvaire would say. Another reminder of everyone Enjolras has failed.

And there is noise, and the smell of smoke, and piercing pain, and the feeling of falling. And at the edge of his vision, he registers a cracked green bottle, torn strips of a red flag, and what looks like early-morning sunlight before everything goes dark.

They are the only two people ever. Enjolras is nothing, floating in the void of nothing, and the only real thing is the hand clasped to his, and he cannot remember whose hand it is, but does it really matter, because it's what's tying him to consciousness and if he lets it go, he feels like he'll dissolve into the night, so he clutches it tighter and tighter, like he is falling off a ship and somebody has thrown him a rope.

And for the second time that day, he blacks out.

He wakes up to someone shaking him. The light seems too bright, and it takes him a moment to make out anything but specks of color. Then, he blinks a few times, and the specks of color form a coherently-rendered person.

"Grantaire?"

"Apollo?"

He sits up, feeling grass scratch at his legs. He doesn't remember coming here- perhaps they were enjoying a day in the countryside and he had fallen asleep? If so, then why was he wearing a waistcoat and cravat?

Then he remembers. Blood and smoke and screams and death.

He had failed them all, hadn't he?

He had failed them, and he had failed France, and failed every person in that horrible, beautiful country. His eyes burned, not from the sunlight, but from something deep inside of him, something gnawing and crying and disbelieving. Tears spill over his cheeks, and for once, he doesn't make any effort to stop them. He should, for the sake of Grantaire, but he doesn't care, why should he care, Grantaire probably hates him anyways. He failed him, after all. He promised a free France and a brighter tomorrow and now they don't get either.

"Enjolras?" Grantaire's voice is soft, hesitant. Why was he not angry? He should be furious, betrayed. But he doesn’t sound angry. Only… concerned

"Enjolras, look." With some effort, Enjolras raises his head, and sees a woman, taller than him, with long red hair. She wears boy clothes, much like that girl at the barricades- Eponine, another person Enjolras should've protected and didn't- and a shawl of red fabric draped across her shoulders almost like a cape. She is beautiful, but not in the way that made Pontmercy or Courfeyrac wax poetic at meetings, but in a way that looked fierce and comforting at the same time, like fire personified. The French flag is tied across her waist like a sash, and across the red cloth, pictures seem to shimmer in the folds, of buildings and flowers and cafes and barricades. And Enjolras feels like he knows her, despite never having seen her in his life.

"Patria?"

"Hello, Enjolras," she says, and her voice sounds like a million people talking at once. 

"I don’t know what to say,” he blurts, hanging his head. "I feel like I failed you.” He can tell Grantaire is watching him. Why did that make him uncomfortable?

"You didn’t fail me at all," she counters, face going hard. "I'm so proud of you."

_ Proud of me? How could anyone be proud of me? _

"Why?" he asks, confused. He didn't deserve anyone's pride, not even himself's.

"Because," she says, smiling slightly, "it’s people like you who give the others hope."

"But I gave them hope!” he shouts, feeling tears well up again in his eyes. “And they did everything for nothing! If I had never given them hope, then they wouldn't have died!"

"Enjolras, look at me." He raises his head to meet her eyes, which are a thousand colors at once, like pools of rainbow, but full of ageless time. "The world won't rise and fall in just a day. It takes time, like a symphony. The soloist who starts the piece may not play the entire way to the finish, but without them, the rest of the melody would not even begin. Others will carry it through. You've done more than your part." She puts her hands on his shoulders, like she’s daring him to argue.

"I..." For once he is at a loss for words. "But my friends..."

"Your friends knew what they fought for. And  _ who  _ they fought for," she says, tilting her head ever-so-slightly in Grantaire's direction. "And you have nothing to be ashamed of."

Enjolras almost believes her.

"I must go now," she continues. "And I think there are others who want to see you." Patria gives a wry smile, like she knows something Enjolras doesn’t. She reaches out her hand, and hesitantly, Enjolras shakes it. 

He blinks, and Patria is gone.

"Enjolras!" He recognizes Combeferre's voice just as he sights him running down the slope. "R!" He feels something barrel into him, a mess of dark hair and freckles.

"Courfeyrac? Ferre? Is that you?"

"Enjolras!" He finds himself in a tangled embrace, feeling the crowd of people around him.

People he failed. 

But Patria said she was  _ proud  _ of him.

Proud. Failure. Proud. Failure.

And it is Jehan that finally breaks him. Jehan, who is the not-quite-youngest, the softest, and the kindest. The poet, who loved birds and flowers and raindrops. First to die. His fault. He didn't save him on time. If he had been a little bit faster...

"Prouvaire, I'm  _ so _ sorry." He hangs his head in shame, ready for whatever the silver-tongued boy can throw at him, knowing he deserves all of it.

"Sorry?” Somehow, impossibly, he smiles. “Enjolras, you have nothing to be sorry for. I made my choice and I wouldn’t take it back." The poet plucks a flower from his hair- some sort of soft yellow wildflower, no doubt Combeferre could identify it- and holds it out to him.

And he collapses to the ground crying, because their forgiveness, their kindness, is too much for him. The cracks in his heart feel like they’re filling themselves with light.

"Enjolras, listen to me, it's okay," Feuilly.

“No, it isn’t!” he cries, bitter, hot, guilt and resentment pushing their way to the surface. “It’s my fault! You should hate me!”

"I don’t hate you!" That’s Bossuet, the unlucky one. “I’d never hate you.”

"It's all right, don't cry so much, it's bad for your tear ducts!" Joly.

"We all died and you're worried about  _ tear ducts?  _ Are you insane?" A woman's voice this time- Eponine.

"Leave him alone, all of you! Enjolras, stop being so sad!" It’s said like an order, but the voice is high and scratchy. The child. The little one. Gavroche?

"I'm sorry, Gavroche. I shouldn’t have let you come."

"Don't be sorry, smooth-face." Somebody laughs at that, and it sounds like Bahorel.

Enjolras could feel hands on his back, and arms around him, and for once, he let the others take care of him.

"Pontmercy is alive, you know," Combeferre interjects. "He's recovering, then he'll be getting married to his Cosette, it seems."

"Pontmercy is alive? You're joking," says Courfeyrac. 

"Well, I should like to not die for nothing," Eponine pronounces dryly. How are they not angry at him? Enjolras can’t understand. He feels hot tears running down his face as he buries his head in his hands. “I can’t believe I let this happen,” he mumbles, more to himself than to anyone else.

"It's okay, we're here..."

"You're safe."

"Nobody is angry at you..."

"You're our friend, you know that?"

"I love you." The voice shocks Enjolras enough for him to whip his head around for the source. Grantaire, standing at the edge of the group, smirking a little. And those words burst the dam of everything that he had kept hidden, everything he'd pushed to the side, because he could not fall in love with the cynic, could not fall in love with anyone, much less someone who disappointed every expectation he had, who had, in one final act of disobedience, stolen his heart...

"I love you too."

"You... you don't have to say that. I know you never liked me, it's okay." The brokenness in his voice feels like a million pieces of ice. 

"No, I did," he says, for once choking on his words. "I loved you, but, I had so much to do... and I wanted to keep you safe, and that meant I had to keep you away from me... because I knew I was terrible at this, like, this kind of stuff, and I knew I'd just end up letting you down, so I just... never said anything,” he finishes lamely, feeling his cheeks heat up.

Enjolras is forcibly cut off by Grantaire's lips crashing against his own. Feeling a wave of emotion swell up inside of him, for once he doesn't push it down, and it burns away a little of the pain- not all of it, but enough that he can forget for a few seconds. He realizes that it had taken a lifetime for them to do this, and they should've done this sooner and there was so much that could’ve been, if they’d both not kept secrets, if they’d trusted each other...

"Too bad we're dead and therefore have no money," Bossuet sighs, cutting them off. "It seems I now owe Combeferre ten francs."

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you enjoyed. Beta reading done by @A-Butter-Churner
> 
> my tumblr is dauntless-sakura
> 
> Feedback is greatly appreciated (´▽`ʃ♡ƪ)


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